Careful What You Wish For 2

"Slut."

You look me over, appraising my immodest outfit from the floor on up—Mary Jane pumps, bare legs, plaid skirt that barely covers my ass, blood red top with a plunging neckline, a silver cross nestled between my breasts—and say it again, a quiet edge in your voice:

"Slut." You tuck my hair behind my ear, revealing my fragile neck where you let your fingernails graze the skin. Shivers run down my body and I turn my eyes to the floor, but you grab hold of the side of my neck and force me to look up and to be still. Your tone changes from meditative to commanding.

"You will look at me when I speak to you, slut. I want to see the fear in your eyes." I dutifully keep my eyes trained on yours as you laugh cruelly. "Yes, just like that!" You seem pleased and for the briefest moment I think that this is a good thing, before your hand flies out and slaps me across the face. The force sets my face downcast once again, which seems to have been your intention as you roughly pull my head back up. "Now that," you say smoothly, looking into my eyes, "is real fear."

I had been the one to bring it up, to ask slyly what you thought, knowing there weren't many men likely to decline rough sex. But I wasn't just asking for rough sex. I wanted discipline. I wanted denigration. I wanted you to take absolute control.

I asked for this

, I repeat over and over in my head as I follow you to the kitchen. It's one of the first warm days of spring and the breeze coming in the window feels good. In one swift motion you pull out a chair, sit yourself down, and pull me over your lap so that my ass is just above your groin. You push my legs down with one arm and my ass rises just above the rest of me. As my ass rises, the tiny skirt rides up and totally uncovers my lacy white panties. For a moment I'm mortified; then my natural slut kicks in and I wonder what you're thinking, looking at me like that. I don't have long to wonder.

I asked fo-

I start to say in my head when my thoughts are interrupted by a sound:

swish

as your hand cuts through the air and

smack!

as it lands on my barely covered ass.

"Aaarghh!" I groan more in surprise than pain; you're just warming up.

Swish

...

smack!

... again ... and again ... you've delivered ten light spanks before you pause. In the momentary silence, you slip a finger under the edge of my underwear, pull them down and off, to allow you full appreciation of your effect on me, both my reddening ass and the increasing wetness between my legs.

"Do you know why you are receiving this punishment?" you ask, stroking my thighs from just below my rosy ass-cheeks down to the ticklish spot behind my knee and back up the inner side, stopping just before you might brush against my cunt.

Distracted by your hand on my thighs, I don't respond right away, prompting a much harder

SMACK!

I cry out, which only secures me another three spanks, hard and fast, before I manage to begin answering your question.

"I am being punished for my sluttish ways: for thinking about sex all the time, and especially for those ..." I quickly count them in my head "... six men I let fuck me this semester."

Swish ... SMACK!

"Seven," you correct me.

Fuck, I forgot.

"But that doesn't count, he was too drunk to fuck me."

"Is that a whine I hear?" Your voice gets real soft. Dangerous. "Do you think I care whether he

managed

to fuck you or not? The point is, you

wanted

him to. Didn't you, slut?"

The question was rhetorical, which becomes painfully clear as you commence the spanking in earnest. As the pain of each spank builds on top of the last, I begin to lose any conscious thought. I forget what I did to deserve this. I forget that I asked for it. Eventually I forget that anything ever existed outside of this, forget that my body ever knew anything but these waves of pain coursing through it.

Suddenly I find myself on my feet. You've set me upright; as I begin to falter and lose my balance you pull me toward you. I wrap my arms around your neck and kiss you desperately, needing reassurance, forgiveness, absolution. Forgetting your role as torturer, you hold me closer and kiss back just as violently as, a moment ago, you had been spanking me. Sweeping me up in your arms you carry me to the bedroom and lay me down, gentle for one brief moment. You strip—quickly, thoughtlessly—and come to me. Your hands are rough as they knead my breasts beneath my shirt, your mouth hard as you attack my neck, your body crushing as you lay your whole self on me, forgetting for once to worry about my fragility. You push my skirt up and slide a finger down my cunt, then hold it to my lips; I give way, sucking your finger clean, enjoying the taste of my own arousal. Snatching your hand away from my mouth, you force my arms above my head and hold them there as you enter me all at once, your cock thrusting deep and hard. You fuck me, carelessly taking your pleasure. I don't deserve to be enjoying this, but I am. Forgiving, you see my joy and rather than punish me for it you lie back and pull me on top of you, allowing me to climax in minutes. As my cunt pulses around your cock, you come deep inside me.